"Where was the nurse on duty?"

"Asleep, C-Bird. Dozed off, feet up, head back, snoring. You think they actually cared enough about any of you to stay awake?"

"But why did you cut her, afterward?"

"To show you what you guessed later, C-Bird. To show you that I could have killed her. But mostly, I knew that it would make everyone argue, and that the people who wanted to believe I was there might see it as proof, and the people who didn't want to believe I was there would see it as persuasive of their position. Doubt and confusion are truly helpful things, C-Bird, when you are planning something precise and perfect."

"Except for one thing," I whispered. "You didn't count on me."

He snarled and replied, "But that's why I'm here now, C-Bird. For you."

Shortly before ten pm, Lucy moved rapidly across the grounds of the hospital toward the Amherst Building, to take over the late-night solitary shift. The graveyard shift, as it was called in newspaper offices and police stations. It was an awful night, caught somewhere between storm and heat, and she lowered her head and thought that her white outfit cut a slice through the thick black air.

In her right hand, she carried a ring of keys that jangled as she quick marched down the path. Above her, an oak tree bent and swayed, rustling leaves with a breeze that she didn't feel and which seemed out of place in the still, humid night. She had thrown her pocketbook, with the loaded pistol concealed inside, over her right shoulder, giving her a jaunty look which was far from how she felt. She ignored an odd cry, something desperate and lonely, that seemed to float down from one of the other dormitories.

Lucy unlocked the two deadbolt locks at the door to Amherst, and put her shoulder to the heavy wood, pushing her way into the building with a scraping sound. For an instant, she was taken aback. Every time she'd been in the building, either in her office, or making her way through the corridor, it had been filled with people, light, and noise. Now, not even late, it had been transformed. What had seemed jammed and constantly busy, energized by all sorts of misshapen madnesses and misbegotten thoughts, was now quiet, save for the occasional eerie shout or scream that lurked through the empty spaces. The corridor was nearly black; some light that faded a little bit of the darkness to a manageable gray came weakly through the windows from distant buildings. The only real light in the corridor was a small cone of brightness, behind the barred door of the nursing station, where a single desk lamp glowed.

She saw a form move at the nursing station, and exhaled slowly when she saw Little Black uncurl himself from behind the desk and open the wire door.

"Right on time," he said.

"Wouldn't miss this for the world," she said with a measure of false bravado.

He shook his head. "I'm guessing you're just in for a long, boring night," he said. He pointed at the intercom on the desk. It was old-fashioned, a small squawk box with a single on off switch on the top and a dial to reduce squelch. "This will keep you connected to my brother and I upstairs," he said. "But we really got to hear you sing out that Apollo word, because these things got to be ten, twenty years old and they don't work too good. The telephone, too, connects upstairs. Just dial two zero two, and it rings. Tell you what, if it rings twice and then you hang up, we'll take that as a signal, too, and come running."

"Two zero two. Got it."

"But ain't likely to need it," Little Black said. "In my experience, inside this place, nothing logical or expected ever happens right, no matter how much planning goes into it. I'm pretty sure that the guy you're hunting knows you're gonna be here. Word gets around pretty good, if you say the right thing to the right person. Gets broadcast real fast. But if this guy is as clever as you seem to think, I've got my doubts that he'll walk into something he's got to figure is a trap. Still, never know."

"That's right," Lucy said. "You never know."

Little Black nodded. "Well, you call. You call if something happens with any of the patients you don't want to handle. Just ignore anybody calling out for help or something. We generally wait until morning for dealing with most any nighttime problems."

"Okay."

He shook his head. "Nervous?"

"No," Lucy replied. She knew she was something she just wasn't certain that nervous described it.

"When it gets late, I'll send someone to check up on you. That'd be okay, right?"

"Always appreciate the company. Except I don't want to spook the Angel."

"I'm not guessing that he's the sort that gets spooked by much," Little Black said. He looked down the corridor. "I made sure the dormitory doors are locked," he said. "Men's and women's. Especially that one right over there that Peter wanted me to unlock. Of course, you know that's the key, right at the end of that chain that unlocks it…" He winked conspiratorially. "My guess is, just about everyone in there is lights-out fast asleep by now."

With that, Little Black shoved back and stepped down the corridor. He turned once and waved, but it was so dark at the end of the hallway, near the stairwell on that end, that she could barely make out his features, beyond the white attendant's suit he wore.

Lucy heard the door creak shut, and then put her pocketbook down on the table, next to the phone. She waited for a few seconds, just long enough to let the silence creep over her with a clammy enveloping sensation, and then she took the key and went down to the men's dormitory. As quietly as she could, she slipped the key into the door lock and turned it once, hearing a distant click. She took a deep breath, and then went back to the nursing station and began to wait for something to happen.

Peter sat wide-awake and cross-legged on his bunk. He heard the click of the lock tumblers being turned, and knew this meant Lucy had unlocked the door. He imagined her in his mind's eye rapidly walking back down to the nursing station. Lucy was so striking, from her height, her scar, the way she carried herself, it was easy for Peter to picture her every move. He strained, trying to hear the sound of her footsteps, but was unable. The noise of the room filled with sleeping men, tangled up in sheets and various despairs, overwhelmed any modest sound from out in the corridor. Too much snoring, heavy breathing, talking in their sleep going on around him to pick out and isolate noise. He guessed this might be a problem, and so, when he was persuaded that all around him were locked in whatever unsettled, uneven sleep they were going to get, he, silently unfolded himself and gingerly picked his way past the forms of men and came to the door. He did not dare open it, for he thought that the noise might awaken someone, no matter how drugged they were. Instead, what Peter did was simply slide down, back against the adjacent wall, so that he was sitting on the floor, waiting for a sound that was out of the ordinary, or the word that signaled the arrival of the Angel.

He wished he had a weapon. A gun, he thought, would be helpful. Even a baseball bat or a policeman's baton. He reminded himself that the Angel would wield a knife, and he would need to stay clear of the man's reach until the Moses brothers arrived, Security was called, and success had been achieved.

Lucy, he guessed, would not have agreed to her performance without some assistance. She had not said she would be armed, but he suspected she was.

The edge they had, though, was in surprise and numbers. It would, he imagined, be sufficient.

Peter stole a glance at Francis and shook his head. The younger man seemed to be asleep, which he thought was a good thing. He regretted that he was leaving Francis behind, but felt that probably, all in all, it was going to be better for him. Since the arrival of the Angel at his bedside an event Peter still wasn't certain had actually taken place it seemed to him that Francis had been increasingly flaky, and increasingly less in control. C-Bird had been descending along some route that Peter could only guess at, and surely wanted no part of. It made him sad to see what was happening to his friend, and be powerless to do anything about it. Francis had taken Cleo's death very hard, Peter thought, and more than any of them seemed to have developed an unhealthy obsession with finding the Angel. It was a little as if Francis's need to find the killer signaled something different and immense to the younger man. It was something well beyond determination, and something dangerous.